


I Saw Him Jump, I Fell

by TheatricallyColorful



Series: Glory Days [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Actually I should be studying, Based off some manga, High School AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:02:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheatricallyColorful/pseuds/TheatricallyColorful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester and his brother Sammy have never stayed in one place for too long, for John Winchester always seems to be running from something. But Dean sees a beautifully serious boy jump, only he's the one to fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Saw Him Jump, I Fell

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my head FOREVER. I thought it was time to unleash it. Please tell me if I should continue it, okay?

Dean has always felt like he has never belonged anywhere. Only in the passenger seat of the Impala, the road stretching out endlessly in front of him and Dad, with Sam in the backseat curled up with some book, and raspy refrains and guitar solos hanging in the air does he feel like life might actually be good.

But that's never stopped him. His unfailing optimism has always bothered John to say the least, but for Sam, it's an oasis in the fatal desert. He hates the nomadic life. Always on the run, never settling down, faces blurring in his memory. He can't even recall the last time he actually stayed for a semester in one school.

But this time, John promises, it will be different.

 

Richmond, Virginia is a bit like Lawrence, Kansas, the town they fled years ago after the death of Mary Winchester, their beloved and sweet mother, whose smile is slowly fading in Dean's memories. Sam couldn't remember her; he was just a baby when she died.

Thomas Jefferson High School should be okay, Dean muses, shouldering his backpack over his leather jacket. "Hurry up, Sam," Dean hollers in frustration at the simple, two-story house that someone leased to John.

Sam steps out of the front door, glaring at his older brother before taking a bite out of his granola bar. "Quit it," Dean commands. "I'm not going to ditch you, 'kay? The school's like five minutes away."

Sam nods sharply, his jaw taut and his eyes fixated forward. Dean sighs as they walk in tense silence and he nudges his brother. "What's up, Sammy?" he asks quietly. "D'you think we'll stay long?" his younger brother asks bitterly. "Or will we pack up when Dad sees a shadow?"

"Sam, Dad's promised we won't be moving for a while. Plus, he's applying for a job at the fire station, so we're really staying," Dean coaxed. "You don't need to worry. We won't seperate you from this school's nerd squad," he smirks and Sam rolls his eyes. "Jerk," he mutters as they both turn, and walk up the school's steps. "Bitch," Dean singsongs in reply.

They ask a handful of students directions on where to get their schedules, and it all goes smoothly until the warning bell rings. They part ways, Dean being a senior and Sam being a sophomore. They check their schedules, and to their relief, they both have 1st lunch. "See ya at lunch!" Dean grins as he trots up to his first period, Language Elective.

He introduces himself several times over, bored of the routine.  _"Hi, I'm Dean Winchester. I like long walks on the beach and no assignments. No, I won't tell you where I come from. Why don't you fuck off?"_

The hours rush on by, and suddenly he's following majority of the crowd to the cafeteria, vaguely familiar faces keeping a respectful distance from his and his leather jacket. His classmates must think he's a bad boy. Well, let them think that. Dean isn't here to give a shit about their speculations.

Sam's seated alone near the window. He's munching quietly on an apple and reading as Dean shrugs his backpack off and slams it on the table. He jerks up in surprise, wary and resentful. Dean doesn't miss the momentary fear on his brother's face and involuntarily, his hands curl into fists.

"Hey, Bambi," he bites out. "Who's the bully?"

Sam shakes his head empathetically. "No one yet," he concedes with a lopsided grin. "So I heard there's this new and scary senior roaming the halls," Sam remarks sarcastically, and Dean grins proudly, puffing out his chest. "That'd be me," he admits unrepentantly. "But how'd you know?"

Sam shrugs. "Gossip here's really fast. Plus there were a lot of chicks whispering about you in my homeroom. They asked me if I knew you, having the same last name. I told them you were my retarded older sibling," he smirks, and Dean smacks him playfully, secretly thankful his brother isn't all gloom and doom today.

"You're being mean!" he whines, pulling out a bag of chips and bottle of Coke from his backpack.

 

The days settle down with a gentle monotony Dean can't get used to. He's used to being on the run, looking over his shoulder, and his thumb running over the hilt of his knife that his Dad gave him.

Sam seems to adjust well, and Dean's glad. He doesn't want his little brother to have a hard time.

Actually, that's an understatement. Sam's thrilled. It's been two weeks, and John has made no move to alert his boys of any impending uprooting. Only Dean feels vaguely sad, somehow missing the freedom of the road, the places he's visited floating half-hopefully in his mind. But he brushes them away before he can feel something like doubt and emptiness.

So he keeps himself busy; he's unwillingly joined the track team at the prompting of Sam and John who have never gotten along well, but somehow set their differences aside long enough to tagteam him. He shouldn't be amused, he thinks as he trudges to Gym, but his younger brother is coddling him like he's a surly baby.

His coach, Bobby Singer, is relentless and hardworking. But Dean likes him, because he can see a trace of John in him, strong and rough. But Bobby just might like Dean back, if his gruff concern is any indication.

"Warm up, boy!" he barks at a sheepish Dean, who's always antsy to go straight to the running part. "I don't wanna pay your medical bills," Bobby adds unconvincingly. It's a universally well-known fact that he's a softie at heart.

Dean nods silently, biting his lower lip to fight off the grin. Maybe Sam and Dad were right, he decides. I'm just adjusting.

When he and Sam get home, John's usually at the station, saving lives, extinguishing fires left and right. Except for Fridays and Sundays, which John declares to be family night wherein he awkwardly attempts to cook something, and decides to "Fuck it! Boys, we're going to Ellen's." Ellen's is this nice, homey diner that has a section that turns into a bar at 10 pm. John can't cook to save his life, and Ellen Harvelle (the owner of the diner) knows this well enough to save a booth for the Winchesters on Friday and Sunday nights.

Dad's making friends, the brothers note with matching grins. So is Sam, Dean adds silently. He's hanging with the geek squad, the little twerp. Dean doesn't even know what they did to gain Sam's friendship, only that they're the same year as him and they're pretty fucking weird.

"Chuck, Ash, Kevin and Samandriel, but we call him Alfie," Sam counts out, proud for being social to others that aren't his family or people who want to copy off his homework.

Dean rolls his eyes; those weird kids spend almost every afternoon with Sam in their living room, doing god knows what.

But on this dreary little Thursday afternoon, he shooes them out of the living room and tells them to "play geek games or whatever it is you do," because he's in the mood to watch television.

He flips from channel to channel, mildly disinterested, but bored out of his mind. He stops momentarily at the school's student-run channel. "Huh, whaddya know," he comments to no one in particular. "Thomas Jefferson actually has its own channel." So he tunes in, trying to indentify if he's been videotaped and he's actually been on TV and he doesn't even know.

But the channel's playing a documentary on the school's sports program.

_"Thomas Jefferson High is the proud academic institution of one the world's most renowned high jumper, with the record of 2.3 meters, incredibly close to the world record, Castiel Novak."_

Dean watches in fascination; the name Castiel Novak rings bells in his mind, but he'd swear he doesn't know the boy.  _Dude,_ he mentally corrects himself. Novak looks about as old as him.

His breath hitches as the most beautiful boy he's ever seen steps out, his blue eyes shining, and yet carefully blank, with careful, counted steps. He approaches the line, takes a steadying breath, and breaks off into a run, his dark hair fluffing and twisting in the wind. Dean can't seem to breathe when the boy,  _Castiel,_ crouches and jumps impossibly high with one foot dexterously and  _holy shit._

 _He's flying._ That's the only thing Dean can register. Dean knows a bit about high jump, it being a sport that fascinated his mother, and whatever fascinated her, fascinated him too. The jumper's form is immaculate; Dean's never seen any high jumpers so clean, so unruffled. 

His body has twisted easily in mid-leap, back arching casually to avoid the pole, his chest puffed up, and in that moment, Dean mindlessly thinks,  _he must be an angel._  And for a moment, it does seem that way, for Dean can almost see the wings, large, and space-sucking. But they're not a divine, dusky  white. They're a dark, charcoal gray.

Dean's head spins. Why hasn't he seen this boy before? For the moment, Dean can't feel anything but want, the want to see him again, to see him jump over and over, suspended in air, with the grace of angel. 

He wants to drown in the blue sea of Castiel's eyes. He wants to run his fingers through the dark mat of messy hair. He wants to see the poker face wiped away, smiling only for him. He's never had sillier dreams, but they twist around and fill the nagging emptiness in his gut. 

That night, Dean tosses and turns. He wakes up more times than he can remember, blinking confusedly at the analog clock on his bedside table. He cusses raspily and attempts to go back to sleep, to no avail.

The next morning comes, and he's rumpled, gruff with dark stains underneath his usually happy green eyes. 

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," Sam comments and he snarls at his brother to back off. He's crabby. He shrugs his jacket on irritably, mumbling nonsense.

But he passes the trophy case near his locker, and to his confusing delight, Castiel's jump is on repeat on a small flat screen trapped in the case.

He detours to his locker after his every period, not caring if he's ten minutes late.

There's something about the jump and the boy that fascinates him. Not to mention he's not missing the road and his dad's old tunes that much anymore. Castiel's on his mind.

He comes home, makes the necessary excuses to obtain Sam's laptop, which his little brother hands over without a breath of protest, already blabbing excitedly to the kid with the S name; Samuel? Samandrew? 

"Hey Alfie what's your name, skidaddle with Sam," he commands. "I'm busy."

"My name's Samandriel Novak," the kid replies indignantly. "Novak? That's familiar," Dean frowns.

"You must be classmates with either of my brothers," he explains. "It's either Gabriel or Castiel."

"Wait, Castiel?! The jumping dude, he's your brother?" Dean asks frantically, the laptop almost slipping out of his grasp.

Alfie nods. "You don't look as graceful as him," Dean remarks critically. "You look like an awkward beanstalk."

Alfie ignores his jibes and walks off with Sam.

Dean googles Castiel Novak and spends the whole afternoon watching him jump over and over.

By 11:43 pm, he might be in love.

He knows everything all there is to know about Castiel Novak, some part of him still struggling to locate the niggling feeling that he's heard that name before, and those blue eyes. But he's buried in articles and pictures and videos of all his performances, and Dean's feeling lightheaded and giddy.

An article about ten or nine years ago piques his interest and he clicks the link, impatiently waiting for it to load.

He blinks; he is so not ready for the assault of a young Castiel Novak, impossibly big blue eyes, so  serious even then. He blinks again, because this time he'd swear on a stack of Bibles that he's seen this picture before. Spooked by it, even.

_"Isn't he amazing, baby? Almost as old as you," Mary gushes, cupping a younger Dean's cheek and pointing to the TV screen. "Will you follow in your daddy's steps just like him?" she asks him seriously, and he's nodding so vehemently she bursts into chime-like laughter._

_When John comes home, he's irritated but amused at the fact his oldest son is waddling around, solemnly following his every step._

The kid jumper who had a dad who was a world-famous high jumper too, he realizes. 

But he shakes his head, and closes the laptop shut. He has school tomorrow. And if he's lucky enough, he might actually see Castiel Novak in person.

 

The dawn arises, but Dean is faster. With little to no sleep under his belt, he's already in the kitchen, brewing coffee for John and making pancakes for Sam.

John ambles in blearily and smiles gratefully at his older son for making him a mean cup of coffee. He firmly ignores the pang in his chest, the knee-knocking guilt at making this Mary lookalike boy grow up too fast.

"You're up early," he comments. Dean nods airily. "I couldn't sleep," he remarks, hoping his voice is even.

Goddamn, he's never been this excited to go to school.

Sam seems slower than usual. It's a Friday, he notes. He has French first period.

It takes an eternity (not really) before Dean speeds out in front of Sam, and suddenly, they're racing, laughing, jumping to school, Sam having caught Dean's infectious mood.

He doesn't notice Sam skid to a stop and greet his friend Samandriel and his older brother Gabriel, calling out, "Yo Cas! You forgot your jacket you dork!" because Dean feels euphoric and finally, okay. Whole.

He's jumped through the threshold of the school and he crashes into someone.

He straightens himself out in bewilderment, about to cuss the person out (he's a badass, hush) but he's met by impossibly big blue eyes.

The air whooshes out of him so fast.

"I'm sorry," Castiel Novak says gravelly, deep and serious. "I was not looking where I was going." He sticks out a hand to Dean, who takes it stupidly, struck dumb.

It's his lucky day.


End file.
